His utterance was the more clear-cut and distinct the faster it became.
“I know what it is. Steptoe thinks I’m going insane, and he’s made you think so too. That’s why you want to get away. You’re afraid of me. Well, I don’t wonder at it; but you’re not going. See? You’re not going. You’ll go when I send you; but you’ll not go before. See? I’ve married you, haven’t I? When all is said and done you’re my wife. My wife!” He laughed, between gritted teeth. “My wife! That’s my wife!” He pointed at her. “Rashleigh Allerton who thought so much of himself has married that—and she’s trying to do the generous by him––”
Going up to him timidly, she laid her hand on his arm. “Say, mister, would you mind countin’ ten?”
The appeal took him so much by surprise that, both in his speech and in his walk, he stopped abruptly. She began to count, slowly, and marking time with her forefinger. “One—two—three—four—five—six—seven—eight—nine—ten.”
He stared at her as if it was she who had gone “off the hooks.” “What do you mean by that?”
“Oh, nothin’. Now you can begin again.”
“Begin what?”
“What you was—what you were sayin’.”
“What I was saying?” He rubbed his hand across his forehead, which was wet with cold perspiration. “Well, what was I saying?”